


New Track

by altairattorney



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Night Vale, the weather forecast is always in tune and never wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Track

**Author's Note:**

> First contribution to this fandom, oh yes! This podcast has all levels of creativity and intriguing resources, and I can't help being grateful to Tumblr for letting me know. Please note that I haven't read any of the other fics; in case of involuntary plagiarism, please warn me right away.

Those who can hear the chanting of the sun need no further explanation; those who only hear light, or occasional moans, don’t either.

If one fact about the Community Radio is universally acknowledged — and the government, aided by the Secret Police, vouches for it — it is that, in Night Vale, the weather forecast is always in tune and never wrong.

More than just once, in everyone’s physical life, words turn out to be dull and unnecessary. With the weather, the lack of words bears more meaning than their presence; a long string of hot, hot and hot would never be able to describe the shades of indigo in its sound. 

The weather always sings, but never repeats the same song. It never did; not once, in thousands of years.

It takes sensitivity, and a bit of genius, to predict what the sky will sound like each day. What the citizens of Night Vale need to prepare – most citizens, to be precise, as newcomers and Hooded Figures do not count – is hearing by themselves.

And most will know, from the very first notes – how dry and high-pitched the voice of the air is going to be, how classic, how jazzy, the wind will blow. Sometimes it will be moody, straining its notes to the border of the desert. Some other times, its rhythm will be constant; in some days, it will leave the town on its own, letting in a chorus of solitary clouds.

The rarest tunes belong to the drizzle. Those are Cecil’s most cherished days – the days in which a long-forgotten water plays its tune, falling like crystal bells on the roofs of Night Vale. It actually sounds like crystal sometimes; that is when actual minerals falls, due to unforeseen changes of plans.

Regardless of mistakes, and of the not-truly-monotonous cycle of heat, it is one of the few eternal traditions. And secretly, in a personal corner of his little show, Cecil has a daily favourite moment – the one when, from the skies above, a new tune is chosen and drifts on his console.

All he has left to do, with his invisible smile, is to press play.


End file.
